Cos could have said trust me, I’ll be gentle, but never in his life had he stitched anything. This included needlepoint—cross stitching—embroidery—patching a pair of pants—mending a sock. To his knowledge he had, nope, never stitched anything. So, he opted to say, believe me, I’ll do my best.

“Here, let’s use this,” said Rusty, and he handed Cos a length of four-pound monofilament fishing line from a new spool he had been saving for a crappie fishing trip. It was too soon in Rusty’s career to learn that camp owners never end up having a spare second to actually go crappie fishing.

Then, feeling as though this was a great gesture on his behalf, Rusty continued, “It’s called Pristine Anglers Dream. Supposed to be super low-stretch along with low-visibility.”

          “Blathers, if it weren’t for the fact that the nearest medical facility was a day away, I wouldn’t tolerate such malarkey,” responded Ears. “But as it stands, I feel there is very little choice. Let’s get this over with.”

Oh, you’re going to feel something alright, thought Cos. And with a spin of his index finger, he began to ratchet down on the vice.

Speaking of feeling something… One of Sally Squatsnfishes’ guests was currently lying on the lawn with what was presumed to be a broken jaw. This was the result of Sally leaving to take a phone call—Jackie and Quale resuming their meet and greet by engaging in a testosterone-filled arm-wrestling match—and the wherewithal of her father Glenn to put an end to the foolishness once the match had turned into full-blown fish-a-cuffs.

Fortunately for Jackie, it was only one black eye and a nose slightly out of joint. The same could be said for Quale, but his black eye was trumped by a broken jaw. At that point Glenn intervened and declared the contest a draw.

Sally, who found zero hilarity when she returned to the scene, blamed her mother Sanda—thus reigniting one of their shared pastimes, a non-loving no-talking contest. Overall, it was an eventful late afternoon on Fifth Avenue.

“Is everything alright, Ms. Squatsnfishes?” asked Gieves as she escaped the lakeside lawn fiasco and marched past him at the back door of the employee entrance to the kitchen.

          “No, Gieves, it’s not,” she said as she turned and paused at the door. “But sometimes things must get worse before they get better. Isn’t that right?”

“Well, ma’am, if you are asking for my opinion, it might be better to turn and face the issue at hand. Versus, let’s say, turning and walking away,” Gieves replied.

          “My sentiments exactly,” Sally responded. “I’ll be in the study, on the phone, if anyone’s looking. Otherwise, can you do me a solid? Get a bag of ice for Quale’s jaw… and one for Jackie’s swollen eye… then lock them both in the dungeon, forever.”

There was a shared smile between Sally and Gieves before she parted to face her Zimbabwe challenge head on. Whoever threatened her had made one thing clear—stay away from the Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament.

Sally was about to make a life-or-death phone call. She much preferred living.

Three rings and the line immediately went to a scripted voicemail. Sally entered the numbers that spelled out “EAGLEONE”. Through the earpiece she could hear click-click, click-click.

Then a voice, “Eagle Three to Eagle One, I got a copy, over? People are asking questions Down Under, how long have they known you’re at Fifth Avenue? Over.”

Speaking of being alive… Mr. Long Ears was now sutured up and resting comfortably with his legs propped on the railing at the deck of his cabin. Although this was not without previous challenges.

The barb on the fishhook that Cos used to pull the fishing line was significantly wider in diameter than what he would have preferred to use. Again, on a remote island one makes do. And one also used what appeared to be a five-to-six-year-old bottle of Super Glue they had found in a tray on the bench in the dock house, to fill the gaping holes.

The other slightly odd sequence that occurred happened when Long Ears collapsed with his hand locked in the vice. Thankfully when his body went slack and he passed out, the vice was taut enough to keep his head from hitting the floor.

But what it did not do was keep his jaw from popping open, jarring his dentures, launching them from his mouth. Again, thankfully, as the teeth rolled across the width of the dock house floor, Link was there to make the perfect retrieve.

The retrieving process ultimately turned out to be a game of keep-away as Link was not steady to the art of delivering to hand. This was something Rusty needed to work on during their dog training sessions. Like the crappie fishing outings—not happening.

How many people does it take to retrieve a British Labrador Retriever? Four—plus a dog biscuit caked with creamy peanut butter.

When Link bolted from the dock house, Long Ears’ teeth protruding from his snout… the buck-toothed bandit kicked sand and headed for parts unknown. “A cat has nine lives, why can’t I have two sets of teeth,” thought the dog as he continued to race.

If it were not for the fact that it was a dog, wearing an aviator’s cap, with someone’s dentures jutting out from his dog-breath-muzzle—one might have guessed from a distance that it was Alfred E. Neuman himself, sprinting down the length of the beachfront on the shores of Lac des Bois.

“Link, I said HEEL!” cried out Rusty as he chased the dog in circles, with the combined efforts of Cosmoid, Celine, and freshly returned to the chaos—Minister Neville.

          “Don’t be mean,” shouted Celine from the rear of the pack, a peanut-butter-covered dog biscuit held high. “He’s most likely got a complex about his crooked set of choppers.”

Post capture, the posse returned to the dock house. “I pray he doesn’t have a food allergy,” stated Neville as he slid the dentures, covered with dog slobber and peanut butter, back into Long Ears’ mouth before they woke him from a pain-induced slumber.

Then he made the Sign of the Cross, “In the name of the Father…”

And before he could finish—Mr. Long Ears came to—gagging—hacking—then paused to say, “This Poligrip must be a new flavor—my mouth tastes like peanut butter.”

–To Be Continued—